The End Of Pain We Take As

Everything Since Homer Has Improved, Except Poetry.

What Do You Do There, Moon, In The Sky? Tell Me What You Do, Silent Moon. When Evening Comes You Rise And Go Contemplating Wastelands; Then You Set.

Rest Forever, Tired Heart. The Final Illusion Has Perished. The One We Believed Eternal Is Gone. Just Like That. Out The Door Desire Follows Hope. Rest Forever. Enough Throbbing. Nothing Deserves Your Attention Nor Is The Earth Worth A Sigh. Bitterness And Boredom Is Life, Nothing Else Ever, And The World Is Mud. Quiet Now. Despair For The Last Time. Fate Gives Us Dying As A Gift. Now Turn From The Hills, The Ugly Hidden Power Which Rules For The Common Evil And The Infinite Vanity Of It All.

There Are Some Centuries Which - Apart From Everything Else - In The Art And Other Disciplines Presume To Remake Everything Because They Know How To Make Nothing.

The Artist's Conception Of His Art Or The Scientist's Of His Science Is Usually As Great As His Conception Of His Own Worth Is Small.